What watchful cares do interpose themselves
Betwixt your eyes and night?
Cassius. Shall I entreat a word? (They whisper.)
Decius. Here lies the east: doth not the day break here?
Casca. No.
Cinna. O pardon, Sir, it doth; and yon grey lines,
That fret the clouds, are messengers of day.
Casca. You shall confess, that you are both deceiv’d:
Here, as I point my sword, the sun arises,
Which is a great way growing on the south,